


But the House is Haunted and the Ride Gets Rough

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Dreams, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal has the gun, which means Cobb and Arthur have to play by her rules.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	But the House is Haunted and the Ride Gets Rough

Arthur honestly expects Cobb to retire after the Fischer job.

Even after giving his whole share to Yusuf, Cobb easily has funds enough from the rest of their unseemly business dealings that Arthur knows for a fact the man will never have to work again. He knows this because Arthur has always been hands-on with their finances, the planner who's good with money, and he made sure that every dime not going straight into living expenses or the next job was wisely invested.

Arthur also expects Cobb to stay in Los Angeles, but within a month of getting home he packs up the kids and moves them to France.

Arthur asks him why, while he helps unpack boxes at the new place.

"I couldn't stay there," Cobb confesses. His voice is quiet and conspiratorial. "She was everywhere I looked and… I've said my goodbyes. Now I need to give our children something better than painful memories of an empty house." They pull appliances out of bubble wrap in relative silence for another ten minutes before he continues, "Besides, after everything Miles and Mada did… I owe it to them to stay closer, you know? The kids can visit any time this way."

' _The grandparents can babysit any time this way_ ,' Arthur's cynical brain translates.

He feels guilty for the thought, but he's not wrong. All of two weeks later, Cobb calls him in for a job. Arthur doesn't have anything else lined up, and it's too easy to break lease on his apartment in Prague and meet Cobb at the airport in Amsterdam.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Cobb says after shaking Arthur's hand.

"Yes you were," says Arthur, and leads the way towards the exit.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur hasn't gone into a dream with Cobb since the inception job, but he's pretty sure he knows what to expect.

Ariadne wouldn't tell him much when they finally landed stateside after Fischer. She mostly hedged and averted her eyes, said it was all incredibly personal, that it wasn't her place to tell him someone else's secrets. But she admitted Mal was there. She told him, all in a rush—as if even this wasn't hers to share—that Cobb had finally said goodbye.

The fact that Cobb came back at all was testament enough to that fact. Arthur is sharply, painfully aware of how tight a hold Mal's distorted, tainted memory held over him. The man's heart was so twisted around with grief and regret that it's no wonder he almost lost it.

Arthur's chest still twinges with an uncomfortable itch of betrayal at the memory of Cobb keeping him deliberately out of the loop—tricking them all down into that dream when the stakes were so much higher than any of them knew. But Arthur is also self-aware enough to admit that the undisclosed danger isn't the reason this particular betrayal still gnaws at him.

It's the fact that Cobb doubted him enough to keep secrets from him in the first place.

Arthur knows his devotion to the man is unhealthy. It's been a hell of a long time since he's had any idea how to say 'no' to Dominic Cobb.

If Cobb had told him the truth from the start, Arthur still wouldn't have hesitated. He'd have lied to the others in a heartbeat and ridden out the mission without flinching, and the fact that Cobb doesn't see that…

It stings a little.

But it's a discomfort Arthur is more than familiar with, so he shrugs it off and focuses on their current task—their first job since inception.

He hasn't let Cobb down yet, and he doesn't plan to start now.

 

\- — - — - — -

The job plays out smoothly, even though the chemist they call in is a woman neither one of them has ever worked with.

The dream only goes down one level—it's all they need to extract from an inexperienced mark who doesn't even know the import of the business secrets his competitors are after. Cobb builds the dream—his first in so long that, looking at the finished scenery, Arthur's throat feels tight with relief.

He's always loved watching Cobb build. Seeing it again, the detail and the fluidity and the understated magnitude of the worlds Cobb is capable of envisioning, is almost too much to take in at once.

There's a brief moment, taut and sharp and dangerous, where Arthur thinks he sees Mal in a crowd. After so many dreams spent watching his back, it's hard to miss the distinctively statuesque figure or the dark twist of hair, or the all too familiar sensation of dark eyes drilling into him.

But when he runs his eyes over the busy street for a second time, there's no sign of her.

 

\- — - — - — -

Their second job runs less smoothly.

They know going in that the subject has training in the dream—militarized projections are unpleasant, especially when there's only one real shot at the information—but this, too, is a game Cobb and Arthur are accustomed to.

They come in heavily armed and ready for combat. Cobb starts shooting the second they're in, leading the S.W.A.T. team of their mark's subconscious off in the wrong direction while Arthur circles behind a sturdy brick building and crawls inside, through a tiny basement window.

The building is a federal reserve, and after navigating a short sequence of well-rehearsed twists and turns, Arthur reaches the massive vault in the center of the subbasement. He's got the codes to crack it open, and he gets quickly to work.

It's a slow process, and a heavy door. Just as he's starting to drag it grudgingly open he feels a sharp tingle run up his spine, and he drops to the floor. A bullet zings past his head and shatters a corner of the wall behind him.

"Hands in the air!" a voice calls from the direction of the gunshot. Arthur curses and reaches for the gun inside his jacket, only to fumble and drop it when another bullet flies past even closer and the voice repeats, angrier now, "I _said_ hands in the air!"

Arthur does as he's told this time, for want of alternatives, and when he stands up he sees that there are four guards—standing in the doorway with guns trained steadily on him.

Three stay put, unwavering, while the fourth tucks his sidearm away and strides forward to pat Arthur down for weapons. He finds all three of Arthur's concealed firearms, and the one weapon he misses—the small knife hidden inconspicuously in Arthur's shoe—won't be much help right now. He wonders how much time is left on the clock. Probably not much. His one shot at getting the information is fading, and with all of his weapons gone, Arthur is fresh out of ideas on how to overpower four armed projections and get into that vault.

Footsteps in the hall outside make his eyebrows knit together in confusion. They sound sharp and calm, like someone in stilettos who's in no particular hurry, and when a tall, lovely woman in a form-fitting dress rounds the corner, Arthur isn't as surprised as he should be to realize that it's Mal.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, suddenly nervous—suddenly _hoping_ the clock is about to run down. Mal never just kills him, after all. She's got too much imagination for that.

The projections look even more confused than Arthur feels, and when Mal steps right past them, no one tries to stop her.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" she murmurs silkily, crossing the floor with measured steps until she stands immediately before him. She barely has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Don't you trust me?"

Arthur wishes he could laugh at the question, instead of staring in wide-eyed, obvious disbelief. Mal shouldn't be here at all—when Cobb's subconscious spontaneously manifests, it's bad news for everyone—and Arthur is just waiting, impatient and resigned, for the pain to start.

But when Mal draws a gun—out of thin air, near as Arthur can tell, because there's no way in hell she was hiding it in that dress—she doesn't aim for his kneecap, or his shin, or his shoulder. She smiles a soft, cryptic smile and trails the fingers of her free hand through his hair, teasing but not quite making a mess of the carefully styled strands. Then she kisses him, and although the barrel of the gun touches his chest, there's nothing threatening in the contact.

Even if there were, Arthur's pretty sure he wouldn't be up to noticing it. He's a little too floored by the fact that Mal is _kissing_ him. And not a quick, friendly touch of lips either, but a deep, warm press of tongue and teeth. He can feel her smiling against his mouth, and he doesn't dare move.

When she pulls back, she's still smiling.

Then Mal turns to face the four waiting projections—all of them still standing there with confused faces and half-lowered guns, like they can't figure out what they're supposed to do—and she plugs them full of holes so fast that not a single one has time to raise his weapon.

"I'd hurry if I were you," she says, turning and winking at Arthur. "You can't possibly have much time left to get what you're after."

Arthur knows she's right, but it still takes him a moment to stop staring and go back to fighting the heavy vault door. He already hears the warning strains of music in his ears as he gets his hands on the meticulously stacked papers. He tears through the information as quickly as he can, and has barely finished the final page when the dream fades to sudden wakefulness around him.

"Did you get it?" Cobb asks, hand closing on Arthur's shoulder and then helping him to his feet from the floor. The dentist's office where they cornered the mark is all green walls and polished linoleum, and Arthur will be glad to get out of here.

"Yeah," says Arthur, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt and already striding towards the exit.

 

\- — - — - — -

He doesn't mention Mal until later.

"Mal shouldn't still be here," says Cobb, blinking at him in confusion. It's a better response than Arthur expected. He more than half feared that Cobb would shut him down like he always has on the subject of Mal, fighting grief with denial.

But there's a new clarity in Cobb's eyes now when he says Mal's name. A bright finality, like closure, and he looks like he's genuinely considering what Arthur is telling him.

"You're sure it was her?" Cobb asks, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Look," Arthur says instead of answering what they both know is an irredeemably stupid question. "I won't pretend to have an explanation. And she was… different. The Mal from before would never do anything but sabotage us, but this… She's the only reason I got out with the information. She saved my ass." He doesn't mention the kiss. Whatever it means, Arthur is damn sure it's not something he wants to discuss with Cobb.

"Did she hurt you?" Cobb asks.

"No," says Arthur. Which doesn't explain the way his insides are twisting themselves up into knots, or the way his face heats when he looks at Cobb now, as if he's lying to his friend's face instead of leaving out one small, unnecessary detail.

It doesn't explain the way his stomach feels as if it's just dropped through the floor.

"I'm going to go pick up some food," Arthur says abruptly, standing and reaching for his room key. "You want anything in particular?"

"No," says Cobb, eyeing him suspiciously. "Anything's good."

Arthur can feel Cobb's eyes following him all the way out the door.

 

\- — - — - — -

The jobs they take are staggered but regular—Cobb always insists on going home to be with his kids between gigs, and Arthur can hardly fault him for that. Especially after everything they've been through.

Arthur is left to plan logistics in between—when he's not following Cobb home to visit—and the quiet always leaves him with too much time to think.

Eames calls him once, and asks if he wants in on a job in Argentina.

"I'll have to clear it with Cobb," Arthur hedges. "I don't know what his availability is."

"I'm not asking about Cobb, darling," Eames says with a light laugh. "Just you."

Arthur is confused enough by the concept to ask, "Why?"

Eames laughs again, though this time the sound bright and tinny and just a little bit less genuine. "Don't take this the wrong way, Arthur. And I hope you'll keep this between us, but… I don't care how bloody brilliant that man is at what he does. I don't ever plan on going under with him again, and if I thought you'd listen to reason I'd advise you to follow my lead."

Eames is smart. Arthur forgets that sometimes.

"Touché." Arthur chooses to ignore the unwelcome advice.

"At any rate," Eames continues, "it should be a pretty fast job, however it goes down. Cobb will never know you were gone. What do you say?"

Arthur actually smiles at that, and shakes his head in quiet disbelief, and finally says into the phone, "I'm all booked up at the moment, but thanks for calling me. I appreciate it."

It's a blatant lie, and they both damn well know it. Arthur didn't even try for plausible denial, and Eames is too sharp to let the untruth slide past him unnoticed. But he doesn't call Arthur out on it.

"Take care of yourself, then," says Eames. "I'll let you know if anything else comes up." He won't, really. It's another thing they both know and won't say.

"Goodbye, Eames," Arthur says, and hangs up the phone.

 

\- — - — - — -

After her first dramatic interference, not another job goes by without Mal coming along for the ride.

She's always there, like an ever-present design element that Cobb can't seem to leave out of the architecture. Even when he can't see her, Arthur can feel Mal's eyes on him. He never drops his guard on purpose, but he quickly comes to expect her to materialize at his back whenever things get hairy. She's his very own dangerously distracting bodyguard.

She seems determined that no harm will come to him, which is a goal Arthur finds difficult to protest.

She also kisses him more often than not.

Arthur never kisses her back. First, it's Mal, and Arthur has never been one to put the moves on another man's wife, even when she's a figment of his grieving imagination—maybe especially then. It just seems crude. Second, he's never been attracted to Mal that way. The woman was always beautiful: stunningly, inhumanly so. But Arthur's appreciation was always planted safely in the abstract, and that hasn't changed.

Third, and most troublingly: this isn't just Mal. It's a manifestation of Cobb's subconscious. Which means that on some level—a level that leaves Arthur's breath tight in his chest and his thoughts spinning in stumbling, confused circles—it's Cobb kissing him.

The thought makes Arthur more than a little uncomfortable, not least because he's not sure how to interpret the uncertain stutter the knowledge leaves in his chest. His own feelings for Cobb have never been something he could see through a clear lens, and he hates not knowing where his head is at. He hates that there's a puzzle _this important_ that he can't seem to solve.

But he still appreciates the number of projections that _don't_ manage to kill him with Mal around. He appreciates the number of knife wounds and bullet holes and bus accidents he hasn't had to suffer on account of her uninvited presence. Death will never be his favorite way to wake up.

 

\- — - — - — -

Mal saves him from a firing squad on a Tuesday, in an important CEO's mind, and then stops him with a hand on his arm when he moves for the nearest door.

"What's the rush?" she asks him teasingly, stepping in close. "You still have plenty of time before the clock runs down. Why not… linger… awhile."

Her hand is on his cheek, distracting and warm, and her lips are a dark, dangerous shade of burgundy.

"Mal, you have to stop this," Arthur says. "You're not even supposed to be here."

He expects her to take offense at the declaration, but instead she laughs.

"Oh, Arthur," she murmurs, trailing her fingers along his cheek and then down to caress his jaw. "One of these days I will get you alone." She makes it sound like a promise, but his skin prickles like it's a threat, and when she tries to snake her other arm around his waist he steps away—he runs before she can protest.

Later, Cobb asks if he's all right, and Arthur just says, "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

He still hasn't told Cobb about the kissing. He plans to avoid that conversation forever if he can get away with it.

 

\- — - — - — -

He gets away with it for three more jobs.

Then Mal kisses him in front of Cobb, and the game is pretty much up.

Arthur stands stock still when she leans up and claims his mouth—stands more motionless than even his usual passive acceptance—though he doesn't resist when her tongue prods at his lips. He knows from past experience that resistance will just make her more demanding. Easier to acquiesce and let it happen, even if Cobb _is_ watching. Even if he's standing there with horrified disbelief painting his features, staring as his projection of Mal attacks Arthur with smiling, perfect lips.

She laughs when she finally draws back, eyes cutting to Cobb with a mischievous sparkle, and then she vanishes like an afterthought. They've still got a job to do, after all, and Mal has just saved their skins. Again. Arthur's pretty confident he could've gotten them out of this one himself, but he's just as happy not to test the theory.

"Come on," he says, when Cobb persists in staring at him like a startled fish. "The target should be at the post office by now."

"I. Yeah," says Cobb, finally snapping to it and catching on.

There's a look in his eyes that says they'll be talking about this later, but he follows Arthur down the sidewalk without further comment.

 

\- — - — - — -

They sneak out of the mark's hotel room the second the job is done, stealthy and efficient, and leave the building without a wasted moment. Their own hotel is half a block down the street, and they duck quickly inside and take the elevator up to their floor.

In the yellow-lit hallway, Cobb bypasses his own door and follows Arthur the extra twenty feet to his room.

Arthur thinks about slamming the door in Cobb's face, but ultimately decides better of it. He can't avoid this conversation forever. Might as well get it over with.

"What was that?" Cobb asks, setting the PASIV case down on the dresser and turning his attention on Arthur. His shoulders look tense, his brows knit together with concern, and Arthur sighs and sheds his coat. He reaches for a hanger immediately—putting the garment in the closet where it can hang properly and not spend the night developing new wrinkles—and then moves farther into the room.

"I don't know what that was," Arthur answers, tired and truthful. "Why don't you tell me?" ' _She's_ your _subconscious_ ,' he wants to say but doesn't.

"Has that… happened before?" Cobb asks him carefully. He follows Arthur a couple of hesitant steps into the room, but he keeps his distance. He doesn't just mean Mal's presence, of course. He's known about that for months.

"Yes," Arthur answers simply.

"Does it happen often?" Cobb presses, stubbornly refusing to let the point drop.

"That depends on what you mean by 'often'," Arthur hedges. It's a cheap tactic. No matter _what_ Cobb's definition of 'often' is, Arthur would have to answer yes. But he's got a little room to wiggle this way. Cobb won't try to pin him down any further than Arthur has already allowed himself to admit. He'll take away the message that yes, this has happened more than once. And no, Arthur doesn't want to talk about it.

"I'm," Cobb starts, then stumbles on his words. He straightens his shoulders, looks Arthur in the eye, and manages a quick, clipped, "I'm sorry."

"I'd rather have projections kissing me than tearing me to pieces," Arthur points out reasonably. That much, at least, is the honest truth. It wins him a small smile, if not the quiet laugh he was hoping for, and Cobb visibly relaxes.

"Still, I'll. Try and make her stop." Not that he'll succeed. Cobb's never been able to control Mal. Not when she was alive—a flesh and blood soul, full of kindness and warmth and ambition—and even less so once she was gone and faded to nothing but a vicious shade of memory in Cobb's own mind.

"You do that," Arthur says anyway. Because what else can he do.

 

\- — - — - — -

They're in Kenya on unrelated business when Yusuf calls.

Arthur is surprised to hear from him. They haven't exactly stayed in touch—though of course Arthur's been well aware that the chemist hasn't strayed far from his home base since Fischer.

"I heard you were in the area," Yusuf says casually. "I thought maybe you'd like to stop in and catch up. It's been quite some time."

"What are you up to, Yusuf?" Arthur asks, genuinely curious. He knows the invitation is anything but social.

"New sedatives," Yusuf says. "I've been experimenting with some new compounds, and I need someone experienced to help me evaluate them."

"You need guinea pigs," Arthur translates aloud.

"But highly skilled guinea pigs," Yusuf concedes easily. "Are you interested?"

"Are you paying?" Arthur asks. He doesn't plan on saying yes if there's nothing in it for them. He doesn't owe Yusuf any favors.

"Yes," says Yusuf. "In cash or chemicals, whichever you prefer. There's always a certain amount of risk in test running new compounds. It would hardly be fair to ask you to take on those risks without compensation."

"We'll be there by morning," Arthur promises. Mombasa is only a few hours away by train—they should be able to head straight there after turning their most recently extracted information over to their clients.

"I'll have everything ready," Yusuf promises.

Arthur ends the call without bothering to say goodbye.

 

\- — - — - — -

"It's strong stuff," Yusuf tells them, handing Arthur and Cobb each a line and waiting as they settle back on the two small cots wedged into Yusuf's tiny office. Arthur wonders why the man hasn't invested in better real estate by now—after the Fischer job, with two shares to himself, Yusuf certainly has the funds to afford a nicer place.

"How strong?" Cobb asks, fidgeting with the line in his wrist.

" _Very_ ," Yusuf says. "You won't be waking up before the dose times out, I guaranty it. Don't go shooting each other down there."

"Understood," says Cobb. Arthur nods to acknowledge the point.

"Ready?" Yusuf checks, hand poised above the PASIV, finger hovering over the button.

"Hit it," says Cobb.

Arthur feels his eyes droop shut.

He opens them to a grand hotel lobby, and blinks in surprise as he realizes this is _his_ design. It's nothing dramatic—no complicated labyrinth full of paradoxes. Just an elegant building he designed for a training mission several months back—a client with no in-dream training that wanted his subconscious capable of taking out anyone that might come after his secrets. There's a bright stone fountain to the right of the central stairs, and the stairway itself is wide and spacious and sweeping. The check-in desk is a tall mahogany marvel along one wall, and everywhere Arthur looks there are warm tones and dark woods and smooth surfaces drawing the eye to the next point of interest.

They didn't discuss who would be doing the dreaming before coming down here—it hardly mattered one way or the other this time, and Cobb's mind generally steps in and takes charge unless he's consciously chosen not to. Arthur assumed that when they got down here it would be Cobb's world he stepped into.

But not just the familiar visuals tell Arthur this place is his own creation. The feel of it does nothing but confirm, the way he can sense the contours of the space around him. He's in control here. And the projections filling the hotel lobby are Cobb's—going about their business pleasantly, undisturbed, and obviously not minding having Arthur in their midst.

When he catches sight of Cobb coming down the steps towards him, Arthur quirks an eyebrow.

"Is there any particular reason you're letting me drive?" he says, curious enough to ask.

"Just wanted to see what you'd do," Cobb says with a smile. His eyes pass appreciatively along the constructed space, and he adds, "I've always been fond of this one. Did you choose it on purpose?"

"No," Arthur admits. "I didn't know I'd be the one dreaming."

"Surprise," says Cobb. "Come on. I'll buy you a coffee. I think we've got some time to kill."

There's no sign of Mal, but given the lack of impending peril, Arthur isn't surprised.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur wakes to Yusuf standing over him and staring expectantly into Arthur's face.

"Well?" Yusuf demands brightly, anxiously—like a kid building his first science-fair volcano who wants to know if the fake lava flowed convincingly enough. "Five minutes. That should have given you roughly two hours with this mix. How was it?"

"Strong," Arthur responds. "You weren't kidding. I don't know if I've ever been in a dream that felt so solid before. Not even for Fischer."

"Excellent," says Yusuf, then turns his attention to Cobb. "And you?"

"I'm with Arthur," says Cobb. "That's some potent stuff. What are you planning to use it for?"

Yusuf scoffs and shakes his head, as though Cobb has just said something pitiably naïve.

"There is no planned _use_ for it yet," says Yusuf. "What's the point until I'm sure it works as intended? This is science, my friends."

"Of course," Arthur agrees blandly.

"So," says Yusuf, moving back to where the PASIV device waits open on the floor between the cots. "Another five minutes?"

"Why don't you make it ten?" says Cobb. "Arthur, same place? I'd like to see the view from the roof."

Arthur nods, and waits for Yusuf to put them under again.

 

\- — - — - — -

The lobby looks the same, but something feels different this time.

Cobb stands implacably to his left, and it's not until Arthur turns and catches sight of Mal coming down the lobby stairs towards them that he wonders if they might not be in trouble after all. There's dangerous intent flashing behind her eyes when she steps in close, and he expects her to kiss him.

She doesn't.

"I love what you've done with the place," she teases, hand fluttering over his chest in a way that feels a little too much like unspoken promise. Arthur can feel Cobb's eyes on him—on _them_ —and discomfort settles low in his gut. If Mal's in a mischievous mood he needs to tread carefully. They won't be able to ditch her here. The layout isn't complicated enough for a tactical retreat.

"What are you playing at?" he asks her, resisting the urge to step back and away. There's no advantage to be gained by letting her see how off-balance her presence is throwing him.

"Oh, Arthur," she chides. "I'm not playing." And suddenly his gun—the one he carries beneath his suit coat even in the most innocuous of dreams—is in her hand, and Arthur is stepping back and swearing, only to have her grab him by the tie and force him to a standstill.

She rests the barrel of the gun beneath his jaw and clicks the safety off, and Arthur honestly thinks she means to shoot him—is bracing himself for the staggering flash of pain and whatever comes next—but instead of a gunshot he hears her voice, soft and inviting, say, "Enough, Dom. You know if you try it I will have no choice but to pull the trigger. Put the gun down."

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off of Mal—off her dangerous smile and bright, purposeful eyes—but he hears Cobb swear and then the clatter of Cobb's handgun on the smooth marble floor.

"Now," says Mal, tracing the barrel of her gun lovingly along Arthur's jaw. "Why don't you boys come with me."

 

\- — - — - — -

She leads the way along lushly carpeted halls until they're standing before a door to what should be a normal hotel room. Its numbers look freshly painted, 6-9-2, and Mal opens the door without using a key.

Arthur braces himself, knowing there's no way to predict what they'll find inside. It could be any number of horror shows, any world, any _person_. If Cobb's subconscious is in a pushy mood, there's no telling what's waiting for them on the other side of that door.

Except then he's _through_ the door, and all he sees is the room that belongs there. Extravagant. Plush. Mahogany furniture and tall lamps and a wide, sprawling bed that takes up most of one wall. It's looks exactly the way it's supposed to, and Arthur casts his eyes around, confused, trying and failing to track Mal's intent.

Cobb steps past him into the room, and from the look on his face he's every bit as lost as Arthur.

The door clicks softly shut, and Arthur starts to turn, Mal's name on his lips along with a question he hasn't finished forming.

He doesn't get to complete the movement. Mal is there too suddenly, pressed along his back like an intimate caress, resting the gun barrel almost idly against his arm. Arthur's not fooled for a second by the apparent nonchalance of the gesture. He knows how quickly that gun will snap to attention if they push her to it. He also knows that if she shoots, one of them won't be waking up.

Depending on which of them she aims for, it might be both of them that don't come back.

Arthur calculates the odds of appeasing an errant projection until the sedation wears off, and finds he doesn't like the results. Ten minutes above. They've been down here barely twelve minutes of dream time, which means they have nearly four hours to get through yet. Mal's vexing presence doesn't reassure him of their chances.

"Dom. Sweetheart." Mal beckons towards Cobb with the gun, casual and friendly. "Come here."

Her breath teases at Arthur's ear when she speaks, and he can feel every point of contact where she presses along his back. Normally Mal is a good inch or two shorter than him, but from the way she has to lean down to brush her lips against his ear, Arthur surmises she must be wearing criminally tall heels. The effect is more than a little intimidating.

" _Dom_ ," Mal says more forcefully when Cobb doesn't immediately approach. She moves the gun only minutely, but it's enough to emphasize the threat.

Arthur watches as Cobb's steps carry him reluctantly forward. He watches as the space between them recedes, until there's less than a foot left, and when Dom speaks Arthur can feel the man's breath ghost across his face.

"What are you after, Mal?" Dom asks quietly. Carefully. Like he's standing too close to a caged tiger.

Arthur can imagine Mal's smile, bright and mischievous. He can imagine the teasing glint in her eyes. He can see that these things are affecting Cobb by the way his jaw clenches and his hands tighten to fists at his sides. Or maybe it's just the gun Dom is reacting to. Mal has moved it again. She's shifted it higher to rest on Arthur's shoulder, and the barrel now sits too close for comfort, angled in the general direction of Arthur's neck.

"You always treat me like trouble," Mal pouts. "My poor, sweet boys. I only want to take care of you."

The fact that she's armed and bossing them around doesn't lend much credence to that particular assertion, but Arthur's not going to disagree and he prays Dom will keep his mouth shut, too. Seems like almost a miracle when the man does, though the silence that follows is maddening. Arthur feels something low and tight coiling in his stomach, anticipating violence, and the heat of Mal's body pressed all against his back is doing nothing for his nerves.

And then Mal speaks, and Arthur's world spins out on its side.

"Kiss him," is all she says. Arthur doesn't miss the way the command makes Cobb's eyes go wide. He doesn't miss the way it sets something loose in his own chest either—something sharp and instinctive and terrified, telling him to run while he can, even though Mal will undoubtedly shoot him before he gets more then two feet.

Cobb's poker face falls into place quickly enough, and he leans into Arthur's space—stiff and uninviting, as though he intends to follow the bare framework of Mal's command with a quick, perfunctory press of lips and then be done with it.

"Now, Dom," Mal interrupts him. "Don't be ungenerous. You wouldn't want to disappoint me."

Cobb freezes at the rebuke, and that mysterious something in Arthur's chest winds even tighter. He's pretty sure he knows where this is going now. He's even more sure it will tear them apart.

But limbo is the only alternative, and it's no alternative at all. Arthur can see from the fresh darkening of Cobb's expression that his partner has reached the same conclusion.

Cobb steps close, chest to chest with Arthur so that Arthur would have to tilt his head back if he wanted to see Cobb's face—which he doesn't right now, Christ, what he wants is to be anywhere but here. The carpet is where he stares instead, just to the side of their feet. The color is rich and red and soft-looking, and not nearly distraction enough from Cobb's inescapable proximity.

When Cobb grabs Arthur's chin and forces him to raise his eyes, Arthur doesn't try to shake free of the touch.

Even though he knows it's coming, when Cobb kisses him Arthur's first instinct is to try and back away. He can't, of course. Mal prevents any retreat, her presence at his back proving an immovable wall of strength and restraint. He can still feel her breath tickling across his ear, even as Cobb's hands move to bracket his face, to guide him further into the kiss, and Arthur feels his own eyes flutter closed.

He doesn't get swept up in the moment, despite the fact that Cobb is an excellent kisser. The moment is too horrifying and unwelcome for that to happen, never mind the whirling confusion that already exists in Arthur's mind wherever Dominic Cobb is concerned.

But the way Cobb is touching him—the way Cobb's hands manage to be so commanding and gentle all at once, the way his body curves around Arthur like something to be cherished and protected, the way Cobb's tongue teases at the seam of his lips like he's hoping for an invitation—it's a side of the man Arthur has never seen before. He's caught glimpses of it, sure—moments and snapshots from when Mal was still alive. But seeing it like this, having it focused on him so suddenly and completely, is thrilling and terrifying and horrible all at once.

It's too intense, and it leaves Arthur's insides twisting up into knots. Christ, he can't do this.

But then Mal shifts behind him, and the gun in her hand inches closer until it's ghosting along his throat, and Arthur's not deluded enough to suppose the movement an accident.

He finally parts his lips, opening for Cobb's tongue, and makes a startled sound when Cobb takes his acquiescence as permission to press full against him, fingers sliding through Arthur's hair and mussing the perfectly crafted strands, cupping Arthur's skull and drawing him even tighter in.

"Touch him," Mal murmurs into Arthur's ear, and when Arthur doesn't move she trails her free hand down his arm. She covers the back of his hand with her palm, twines their fingers together, and guides his hand to Dom's chest—trails their joined fingers up the front of his shirt, finally bringing them to rest at the side of Cobb's throat.

"There," says Mal, and when she drops her hand Arthur's stays. He knows better than to disobey an order, no matter how deceptively gentle its delivery. But the point of contact, the overheated skin of Cobb's throat beneath his fingers, is too much for Arthur to sustain, and so he lets his hand slip just slightly—curls his fingers in the fabric of Cobb's collar instead, and clings so tightly he's afraid he might never remember how to let go.

When Cobb finally pulls back, he looks winded and startled and even more unsteady than Arthur feels. It's not much of a consolation, especially when Cobb shifts self-consciously against him and Arthur realizes there's an unmistakable pressure against his thigh.

For a moment, Arthur can't wrap his head around the fact that Cobb _wants_ this.

Then Mal hums behind him, the sound soft and content, like a sated purr, and Arthur's skin goes tight and cold as he remembers just what Mal is.

A manifestation of _Cobb's_ subconscious. A projection of Cobb's mind. If this Mal wants something, then on some level, Cobb must want it, too.

The knowledge must reach Arthur's eyes, because Cobb's expression clouds with guilt and he looks like it's damnably difficult to keep looking Arthur in the face. Arthur clenches his jaw and lets his fury show.

"My beautiful boys," Mal murmurs appreciatively. She strokes the gun up and down Arthur's arm, and somehow the motion manages to come across as more satisfied than threatening. Arthur still doesn't care for it. He doesn't care for any of this, the dream, or the room, or the fact that he can see the bed from here and the sight is making his chest feel tight and hot. How long have they got left? Three hours? Longer? He feels like that damn kiss lasted for an eternity, and he hates that he has no real sense of how much time has actually passed.

He hates not knowing what Mal will do next.

"Now," she says, stepping back and away—Arthur moves, too, putting a solid two feet of space between himself and Cobb before Mal continues, "That wasn't so very difficult, was it?"

Arthur's got no delusions that she's finished with them, and he watches her warily. She stays deliberately between them and the door, and the gun rests in her fingers like it's no weight at all. Her gaze darts back and forth between them for a moment, then darkens into something heated and determined.

She tightens her grip on the gun, gestures at Arthur with it and says, "Dom, I think Arthur's suit is a bit stifling. Perhaps you could do something about this?"

Arthur's pulse picks up at Cobb's wary approach—at the sensation of Cobb's fingers undoing his tie, pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders, reaching down to deftly unbutton his vest. He keeps his eyes averted because whatever emotions are shining in Cobb's face right now, Arthur doesn't want to see them.

He just wants to survive the next three hours with a modicum of his dignity intact.

 

\- — - — - — -

"I'm sorry," Cobb breathes into his skin some twenty minutes later.

"Fuck you," says Arthur, and then gasps and curses as Cobb's fingers find a different angle and set off unexpected sparks inside him.

They're both naked now—Mal made a slow, deliberate show of it, of course—and the bed is soft beneath him, mattress giving beneath their combined weight as Arthur's body tries to squirm straight down through it to escape the overwhelming flood of sensation.

Cobb's body is an eager line of heat along his back. Skin against skin—potential and intent. Cobb's got two fingers inside Arthur already, slick with lube—which is a small blessing, but a blessing just the same. By the time Mal had them both naked, Arthur was half afraid they'd be doing without. This is going to hurt enough as it is—his body is too tense, and even the limited intrusion of two fingers is enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

"Jesus, Arthur, you have to relax," Cobb breathes. His voice is ragged and fractured, quiet as though he doesn't want Mal to hear. "This is going to tear you apart if you don't loosen up."

"You _think_?" Arthur growls, and his hips buck involuntarily beneath Cobb's touch. Christ, how can it feel so good and so wrong all at the same time? A tiny corner of his brain pipes up then, wondering what it would be like to do this right—wondering how it would've gone if Cobb had just _said_ something. Maybe asked Arthur out to dinner in the real world and taken the time to seduce him properly.

Arthur tells that voice to shut the fuck up, but he's suddenly not sure he would've said no.

"Arthur, I'm serious," Cobb growls, dropping his full weight across Arthur's back and resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then take your goddamn fingers out of my ass," Arthur hisses, but he knows his protests are pointless. There's a reason he's clinging to the bed sheets instead of trying to get away—and that reason is sitting just a few feet away, in a chair by the window. She wears a serene smile, watching with shameless satisfaction as the scene she's directed plays out. Arthur's gun still sits all too comfortably in her delicate hands.

"Please," Cobb breathes, and Arthur freezes. "Arthur, _please_ ," he repeats. His voice sounds raw and desperate, and it cuts Arthur straight to the soul. "I have to do this, one way or the other. You know I do."

"So do it, already," Arthur says, but he can already feel his resistance crumbling. "God damn it, Cobb, it's just a dream. Get it over with." The demand is nothing but false bravado. He already knows he's going to cave to the plea in Cobb's voice.

"Not like this," Cobb whispers. "Arthur, don't make me do it like this." And then, like a record stuck on repeat who doesn't know what else to say, Cobb whispers, "I don't want to hurt you."

Arthur goes still with the sudden force of his surrender, and while he's not going to convince his body to relax enough for this any time soon, he can at least let go of the tension straining all the way through him. He can take the tight coil of anxious anticipation in his gut and try to breathe around it. He can stop trying to wiggle away when Cobb's fingers flex and twist and make him feel like he's coming apart.

When Cobb introduces a third finger, Arthur has to bury his face in the pillow to stifle his groan, but he manages to stay put.

And then Cobb's hand is gone, Cobb's weight along his back gone with it, and Arthur gasps at the sudden lack of contact. He almost twists to peer over his shoulder, but he already knows what comes next.

"Wait," says Mal. It's the first word she's spoken since she ordered them onto the bed. Arthur's attention flies to her, and the smile twisting her features now is hungry and vicious. "You've been doing so well, Dom. Don't you want to do this right?"

Arthur doesn't think there _is_ a right way to do this—not down here.

"Mal—" says Cobb.

"No," says Mal, cutting him off. "You cannot simply fuck him, Dom. You must _show_ him."

"Mal, I can't—"

"Put him on his back," says Mal, holding the gun out and aiming unmistakably at Arthur's head.

When Cobb's hand closes on his shoulder and urges him to move, Arthur doesn't bother resisting. His eyes find the ceiling instead of Cobb's face, because whatever it is Mal wants him to see, Arthur's pretty sure he can't take it right now. He spreads his legs like he's supposed to. He tightens his fingers around Cobb's biceps, because even though she doesn't speak Arthur can hear Mal's voice in his head admonishing, ' _touch him_.' He waits in trembling anticipation as Cobb settles between his thighs and sets a hand at Arthur's hip.

He braces himself and tries to keep his body loose.

It hurts. Which seems unfair somehow—this is a dream world, where the laws of physics can be rendered nonexistent and reality itself is at best an uncertainty. It's not fair that, in a world that exists within the confines of his own mind, having a lube-slicked cock slide into him still hurts this much.

He closes his eyes, intent on riding it out and letting it happen, when he's brought up short by the sensation of Cobb going still just partway in.

"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur gasps, eyes opening and searching desperately for something to look at that isn't Cobb.

"You need to relax," Cobb reminds him forcefully. His fingers dig bruisingly into Arthur's hips, and his voice sounds strained and rough.

"I'm trying," Arthur grinds out between his teeth. "Just… This is as loose as I'm getting, okay? Just _do_ it already. Stop dragging this out."

He closes his eyes when Cobb moves again. Clamps his mouth shut over the sounds—low, shocky, embarrassing—that manage to escape from his throat no matter how harshly he tries to suppress them. Cobb moves in painfully slow increments, inch by careful inch, and eventually Arthur's mouth drops open on a gasp because it's all just too damn much.

When Cobb finally stops, flush against Arthur's body and trailing worried fingers over his face, it's all Arthur can do to breathe.

"Arthur," comes Mal's voice, loving and severe all at once. "Look at him."

Arthur shakes his head and keeps his eyes firmly closed. Mal can threaten to shoot him all she wants, he's not going to look.

But then Cobb does something unexpected. His hips give a quick stutter, shifting his cock inside of Arthur, and at the same time he leans down and kisses Arthur on the lips. It's not the same kind of open-mouthed kiss Mal has had them sharing at gunpoint. It's quick and tender, terrifyingly intimate, and when he pulls away Arthur's too busy blinking at him in surprise to keep his gaze averted like he means to.

What he finds in Cobb's eyes takes his breath away. It's almost worse than the piercing weight of Cobb's cock inside him.

Beneath the apologies and the guilt and the dark, barely muted hunger, there's a desperate surge of emotion that can't be mistaken for anything but what it is.

Love.

Jesus Christ, Cobb doesn't just want to fuck him. Cobb's in love with him.

Arthur thought he was in over his head before, but now he realizes just how much farther they have to fall.

"Jesus, Dom," says Arthur.

Cobb's expression instantly shutters, and finally he moves. In and out, an uneven rhythm that starts careful and gentle but doesn't stay that way for long. Arthur can feel his body protesting every thrust at first, but then it gets easier, his muscles adjusting to the invasion.

Cobb's body crushes him into the mattress, and then one of Cobb's hands gives up grasping at Arthur's hip to snake between them—to find the stiff, damning evidence that Arthur's body isn't minding this predicament nearly as much as his mind is—and when Cobb's fingers close around him, all Arthur can do is gasp against Cobb's throat. He holds on tighter without even meaning to, grasping at Cobb's shoulders and shuddering when Cobb finds a new thrusting angle that lines up with something sparking and intense inside him.

Fuck, he's going to come before Cobb does at this rate, and the thought makes Arthur squeeze his eyes shut and drag in a shuddery gasp.

He does come first—inevitable, maybe, between the skilled hand on his cock and the stark intensity of Cobb hitting that secret place inside him. He floats in a cloudy haze for the next few minutes, feeling high and drunk and exhausted and sated, while Cobb keeps thrusting into him.

When Cobb finally comes, Arthur is all too present for it, all too aware of the wet heat that fills him and the way his name escapes Cobb's lips in a fractured groan.

Mal sets the gun down on her lap to clap approvingly, but she picks it up again before Cobb has even managed to pull out.

"That was lovely," says Mal. "Very touching."

There's something in her tone that says this isn't over yet.

"Again?" she asks.

Arthur wishes he could be surprised.

 

\- — - — - — -

The clock runs down on schedule, and Arthur has never been so relieved to wake up from a dream—and that's with a long history of nightmares, and extractions gone wrong, and even inception to choose from.

He's yanking the line from his wrist so quickly it hurts, moving before Yusuf can so much as blink at him. He's running, and he's not ashamed about it. As he slams through the door and into the hall beyond, he hears Yusuf ask Cobb what happened. He also hears a clatter of noise as Cobb trips over a piece of furniture in his rush to follow without bothering to answer Yusuf's question.

So Arthur moves faster. He's not going to successfully outrun Cobb—not when the man is determined and on his tail—but he can put off the inevitable for ten or fifteen minutes. He moves through the dimly lit hallway of Yusuf's building, down a set of sturdy, narrow stairs and then out the front door into sunlight.

He ducks into the first alley he sees, and doesn't stop moving.

Twenty minutes later he realizes that, while Cobb is unquestionably trailing him, the man must be trying to give him space because he hasn't yet moved forward to intercept. Arthur slows his pace to test his theory—he continues ducking down crowded streets and buildings, but less hurriedly now—and he knows he's right when even then Cobb doesn't materialize at his side, or grab him by the arm or stride forward to block his path.

That, more than anything else, tells him that Cobb is as freaked as him.

Which means they need to talk about this, though it's a conversation Arthur doesn't look forward to having.

He sighs inwardly, finding himself already resigned, and turns his steps back towards their hotel. It's close—maybe he's been subconsciously angling this way from the start—and when he reaches the crumbling façade, he doesn't hesitate. He strides through the front door, straight towards the stairs. He bypasses their floor entirely—the last thing he wants is to try and have this conversation trapped in a goddamn hotel room, even one that looks _nothing_ like the opulent setting of the dream. Instead he lets his feet carry him step-by-step to the roof access at the top of the stairs.

The door is locked, of course. Employees only. And Arthur briefly considers picking the lock before rejecting the idea as too time-consuming and simply shouldering his way through. It's not a particularly sturdy door. It gives way on the second try.

No alarm sounds as he steps through. They're not staying at that kind of place.

Arthur doesn't get too close to the edge of the building, though he's tempted. The thought of sitting on the low wall that circles the roof, letting his legs dangle out over the street—it has a certain appeal. But Cobb will be poking his head through that door at any moment, and Arthur isn't feeling vindictive enough to scare him that much. He knows what Cobb will think if he finds Arthur that close to a ledge—the man's got a thing about people falling these days.

Arthur hears the creak of the door and then footsteps crunching towards him, and he focuses everything he has on waiting passively with his hands stuffed as far into his pockets as they'll go.

Cobb stops beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. In his peripheral vision, Arthur can see that Cobb is wearing an uncertain expression, fear visible on his features even as he squints into the low-hanging sun.

He doesn't speak, and Arthur isn't surprised by his silence. Cobb probably thinks he's just being appropriately cautious—that this is still about giving Arthur space, time, whatever it is Cobb's trying to give him. It won't occur to him that putting this on Arthur's shoulders—making Arthur find words first—paints him a coward.

Fine. If he's going to be a coward, then Arthur's not going to hold back.

"How long have you been in love with me?" he asks. He doesn't bother keeping the bright flare of anger out of his question.

"You probably don't want to know," says Cobb. It's an answer and an evasion all at once. It tells Arthur more than he wants to hear. It tells him that whatever defense Cobb plans on offering, he won't be claiming obliviousness. He's all too aware, and has been for god only knows how long.

Arthur is even angrier now than he was before, and for a moment he can't figure out why.

Cobb has always kept secrets. That's nothing new. Hell, sometimes his secrets are dangerous—inception comes to mind—but Arthur always forgives him.

He can't explain why _this_ secret hits him so hard, and that bothers him.

It takes a strained moment of silence for him to realize that the reason he can't wrap his head around this one is that this secret comes with so much lost potential. If Cobb had just said something—if Cobb had goddamn _trusted_ him for once, trusted that Arthur wouldn't freak out and take off at the first hint that Dom was interested in more than friendship—maybe things could have gone differently. After the events of the past four hours, Arthur can admit to himself that his feelings for Dom aren't precisely platonic—maybe they never were.

But _this_ isn't how he'd have chosen to figure it out. And yet here they are.

"You couldn't have just told me?" Arthur finally asks, breaking the silence and catching the way Cobb flinches beneath the words. "Maybe… taken me to a goddamn _movie_ or something? Normal people go on dates, Cobb. They don't…" He trails off, because he doesn't need to say it.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this," Cobb says hoarsely.

"At all you mean," Arthur bites back. "I wasn't supposed to find out."

"I didn't want to burden you."

Arthur laughs at that, a short bark of sound that's sharp and dangerous and manic and actually hurts coming out.

"Good job with that," he mutters darkly.

When he risks a glance at Cobb, the man looks so wrecked that Arthur's chest hurts. This isn't how it's supposed to be between them. They've got their issues, sure, but this fractured, betrayed mess is so wrong Arthur doesn't even know where to start.

He has to forcibly remind himself that it's not his job to fix it. He hasn't done anything wrong—except maybe going down there with Cobb in the first place.

This isn't on him. But he still wishes he could make it right.

When Cobb turns and meets his eyes, the man's gaze is blue and piercing and so intense it nearly knocks Arthur's breath out of him. It's the same look from below—the same guileless desperation that gave him away in the first place.

"I need to know we'll be okay," Cobb says thickly.

"Maybe we won't be," Arthur says. He doesn't say it to be cruel. He says it because at this point, he just doesn't know. He's not going to offer reassurances he can't follow through on.

"Arthur—"

"For Christ's sake, Dom. I can't just _decide_ to be okay with the fact that you held me at gunpoint and fucked me!" ' _Four times_ ,' he could add but doesn't. As it is, saying the words out loud hurts almost as much as that razor-sharp laugh he couldn't hold in moments before. The way the words make Cobb's face crumble in self-loathing hurts even more.

Arthur looks away then, because he has to. He can't keep looking Cobb in the eye when that expression is there. He can't think of anything else to say, either, and it stings that he can't find a way to repair the damage between them. He's the point man. Fixing things is what he does.

But not this. And finally, he turns his back on the bright glare of sun and moves to go back inside.

"Arthur," calls Cobb. " _Arthur_." When Arthur doesn't stop, Cobb grabs him by the elbow, halting his retreat and forcing eye contact. Arthur doesn't try to shake free. He just waits, heart in his throat, until Cobb finally manages a choked, "I'm sorry."

"I know," says Arthur. It's the only response he has.

 

\- — - — - — -

Cobb goes home to his children two days later. Arthur declines his awkward but inevitable invitation, and instead disappears for a while.

He knows his conspicuous absence will mess with Cobb's head. He also knows, even as he boards a plane to Turkey and positions his carry-on in the overhead compartment, that he won't be able to stay gone.

He makes a solid attempt at it anyway. He only lingers in any given country for a couple of days before he's hopping on a plane or an ocean liner or a train and heading for another unplanned destination. He has to move fast if he's going to stay ahead of Cobb's vast network of informants, and for the moment the last thing Arthur wants is to be found. He's reasonably sure Cobb wouldn't come after him, but all the same. He'd rather not risk it.

He keeps a low profile for just over two months before swallowing the inevitable conclusion that he has to go back.

It's got nothing to do with the fact that Cobb is waiting for him—probably anxiously—and everything to do with the fact that, no matter how long he stays away, _Cobb_ is still all Arthur can think about.

He doesn't dream the natural way anymore, but if he did he's got a pretty solid idea what turn his dreams would take. He's all too aware of the direction his waking mind wanders when he lets his focus slip.

Dom is under his skin in a way Arthur can't escape. Maybe it's time he stopped trying.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur takes out his cell phone the second his plane touches down in Paris.

He briefly considered simply turning up on Dom's doorstep—he's never needed any warning to stop by before. But this visit isn't like anything that's come before, and there are James and Phillipa to consider.

He doesn't call. Just sends a sparse text message. ' _I'm back_ ,' is all it says.

He checks himself into a hotel before making his way to the Cobb residence—mostly he wants to have somewhere to retreat to if things pan out poorly, but it's also a stalling tactic. It gives him a little extra time to try and calm his nerves. Not that calm is something he has any delusions of achieving.

He stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a full ten minutes, asking himself what he's doing here.

Then finally, without a satisfactory answer in hand, he adjusts his tie and heads for the door.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur doesn't ring the doorbell when he arrives on Cobb's doorstep. He's got his own copy of the key, and he's not shy about using it now.

The house is silent throughout, which tells Arthur that Cobb received his text and dropped the kids off with a sitter. When James and Phillipa are home, 'quiet' is never a word that applies.

He finds Cobb not indoors, but out on the back porch, leaning on his elbows against the high railing that curves to match the contours of the house. Arthur approaches carefully, softly, but Cobb still hears him and turns. The man's eyes are ice blue and piercing, and relief makes his face look a decade younger than his years. Arthur's heart does a weird little stutter in his chest, which he ignores in favor of stepping further out onto the porch.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Cobb admits shakily.

"I know," says Arthur. He's not going to make any apologies.

He can read uncertainty in the set of Cobb's shoulders. Questions and curiosity and a low hint of fear—as if he's afraid Arthur is just here to say goodbye.

"Are you staying?" Cobb asks cautiously. He still has one arm draped across the painted wood of the railing, and his fingers clutch a little too tightly around the edge.

"For now," says Arthur. He's still not making any promises. There are too many variables, and he doesn't want to risk being wrong.

He can tell Cobb wants to apologize again. He can also tell from the weight of shadows in his eyes that if Cobb starts apologizing, he might never stop. And that's ground they've already covered—it's a conversation Arthur doesn't want to repeat. He wants to put what happened firmly behind them and figure out where they go from here.

So he throws his hesitation aside and takes the rest of the porch in quick strides. He stops in front of Cobb, toe to toe—obviously too close—and forces himself to meet Cobb's eyes.

Cobb looks stunned by Arthur's sudden proximity. He blinks and stares and clearly doesn't know what to say.

"I want to know how long," says Arthur. Because he's come to realize it matters. He's not sure _why_ he cares. He just knows it's information he needs before his head can get on board with the direction his heart seems dead-set on carrying him.

Cobb hesitates. He swallows nervously. But finally he says, "Three years. Give or take."

Christ, that puts it before Mal—before the Cobbs' disastrous visit to limbo. No wonder Dom never told him. Arthur can only imagine what that kind of guilt can do to a man, left to fester that long. Maybe it's a miracle they're standing here at all.

He doesn't bother asking ' _Why didn't you tell me_?' He thinks he understands now.

"Arthur, I don't mean to be forward, but… I'm kind of getting mixed signals here."

Of course Cobb is—how could he not be with Arthur standing so close? Arthur swallows hard, because this is the part he's not as sure about. This is the part that could send him running again when what he needs is to be grounded.

But he's here. He's not backing out now. ' _Sink or swim_ ,' he thinks, and finally says, "I think I want you to kiss me."

If Cobb looked stunned before, he looks downright floored now. Arthur suspects if he weren't holding onto the railing with a white-knuckled grip, he'd probably have fallen on his ass.

Cobb steps away instead of closer, and the expression on his face slowly morphs from shock into cautious disbelief, and from there into something dangerously like hope.

Arthur doesn't repeat his request. He just follows Cobb's retreat, stepping in close to the railing and resting his own hand on the smooth wood a bare inch from Cobb's. He glances down at the fractional space separating their fingers, and then back up into Cobb's wide, blinking eyes.

He braces himself for the floodwaters and isn't disappointed.

The kiss starts out gentle, of course. Just Cobb's hand at his jaw, Cobb's lips a respectful pressure against Arthur's mouth. It feels good, but it's not what Arthur wants—he needs to see the fire beneath, the hunger Cobb is carefully shielding him from. He needs to know he can handle it, or all of this is pointless.

So Arthur parts his lips, teases lightly at Cobb's closed mouth with his tongue. He raises both his hands to Cobb's chest, thumbs finding warm skin where the collar of Cobb's shirt hangs unbuttoned— _touch him_ , comes a memory of Mal's voice in the back of his head, but for once it doesn't bother him. This is real, and they're doing it on _his_ terms.

Arthur doesn't know which of his efforts conquers the last vestiges of Cobb's restraint, but he surges against Arthur now. His lips part on a groan and his claiming of Arthur's mouth becomes deep and hungry, exploring, something filthy and greedy and full of tongue. Arthur finds his hands sliding higher, along the firm column of Cobb's neck and the broad bulk of his shoulders, and he holds on tightly, desperately as Cobb's body shifts and crushes him against the railing—which is, thankfully, sturdy enough to support their weight.

Now that the situation is under _his_ control—something Arthur could put a stop to with a sharp command and a hard shove—he finds that he likes the way this feels. He likes the way Cobb manhandles and pins him, holds him against the railing as though Arthur might change his mind and retreat. He likes the way Cobb takes command of the kiss, tilting Arthur's head back with guiding hands and holding him still for the exploratory touch of Cobb's tongue.

He likes the weight of Cobb's body, a protective press of muscle holding him steady.

He likes the way, when Cobb finally pulls back, those bright blue eyes are already asking without words, ' _Is this okay_?'

Arthur flails around in his head for something reassuring to say—some coherent string of sentences to tell Cobb that yes, this is _more_ than okay, in fact Arthur would very much like to keep doing this and never stop. But his lips don't seem to be forming words, and his voice is stuck somewhere in his chest anyway, and he's got no goddamn idea what to say.

Cobb takes his silence the wrong way, and instead of swooping back in and kissing him again like Arthur would really prefer, he jerks his hands from Arthur's body and steps out of range.

"I'm sorry," he mutters in a rush, voice on the verge of panic. "Jesus, Arthur, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Get back here," Arthur snaps. He's not chasing Cobb down if he runs, which means Cobb better not run.

The command catches Cobb so off guard that for a moment he doesn't obey. He just blinks in surprise, confusion plain on his face, and stares at Arthur as though he's speaking a completely unfamiliar language. Arthur just quirks a meaningful eyebrow and lets impatience show on his face.

Eventually Cobb gets it together, and returns.

He doesn't stand quite as close this time. He doesn't touch. But he's near enough that Arthur can feel the body heat mingling between them. He's close enough that Arthur can feel a heady buzz of potential humming beneath his skin.

"You didn't want this," says Cobb. Quietly. Cautiously.

"I didn't know _what_ I wanted," Arthur informs him blandly. "I didn't exactly have a chance to sort it out for myself beforehand." He doesn't want to reference what happened with Mal, but he knows they can't avoid the subject entirely.

"I'm sorry," Cobb says, and there's the flash of guilt again.

"I know that already," Arthur points out. He tries to keep his tone gentle—the last thing he wants to do is scare Cobb away when they're finally getting somewhere. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"You shouldn't be here anyway after what Mal did," Cobb insists. ' _After what_ I _did_ ,' he means.

"Maybe," Arthur concedes. "But that's not really your call to make, is it?"

Cobb actually cracks a small smile at that, soft and relieved, and says, "No, I guess it's not."

And because he's said his fill—everything he needs to for now, at least—Arthur leans up and in for another kiss.

This one is quick, brief but intense, and by the time they separate Arthur is relieved to feel Cobb's hands on him again.

"So," Arthur says. "What do we do now?"

He's not expecting Cobb to laugh, but the sound is bright and warm and pleasant, and then Cobb is fixing him with a long look—desire in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

"I was thinking dinner and a movie," he says.

And Arthur smiles, too.

 

\- — - —fin — - — -


End file.
